And so we stumble into December, once the proud tenth month of a Roman calendar designed by people who thought it wise to leave sixty days of winter adrift like sheep in a snow drift. Eventually they realised this was a fool’s errand, tacked on January and February, and shuffled December to twelfth place. One is tempted to ask what the Romans ever did for us, though the answer is usually far less thrilling than the storytellers claim1‘December’, Wikipedia,<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/December> [accessed 1 December 2025].
One small mercy of December is that the countryside has not yet surrendered all its colour. This morning was dreich enough to dampen anyone’s spirits, but yesterday, the final gasp of November put on a brave show. A hawthorn tree lurking in a sinkhole below Roseberry Topping flaunted its bright red berries as if it were auditioning for a nature calendar. The berries, haws to the initiated, can be eaten, though the tree’s reputation is steeped in death thanks to its spring flowers, which give off trimethylamine, the same obliging chemical that announces the start of putrefaction. This attracts flies that happily pollinate the blossoms, proving that nature has a wicked sense of humour.
If you can put this grisly detail out of mind, there are countless recipes for hawthorn jams and jellies, all brimming with vitamin C. Just avoid the tiny seeds, as they are laced with cyanide. Perhaps it is wiser to leave the haws to the birds, who seem perfectly content to treat them as a winter feast while the rest of us admire from a safe distance.
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